Happily Ever After?
by Supernatural-Lover
Summary: At the end of the Phantom of the Opera, Christine decides to stay with the phantom instead of leaving with Raoul. The story follows them out of the opera house and into the real world, where their love will be tested by the cruelty of man...
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: this story takes place at the very end of the phantom of the opera movie/play. In the end, however, Christine decides to stay with the phantom instead of Raul.

Unfortunately, none of these characters are mine. They belong to someone far richer and more powerful. **–pout- **

**Happily Ever After?**

Christine let go of Raul and followed the phantom into his sleeping chamber. She watched from the shadows with a broken heart as his tear-stained face glowed with love and loss. Staring intently into his music box, he sang softly, "Masquerade, paper faces on parade. Masquerade, hide your face so the world will never find you."

His tone was soft and broken, and Christine closed her eyes as the familiar words echoed a deeper and much more solemn meaning. The poor man was a genius, why couldn't anyone else see that he – suddenly she realized that she was no different from the rest. She had condemned him in front of the world; ripped apart his dreams like they meant nothing.

She took a deep breath and resolutely crossed the damp stone floor to stand in front of him. She tried to speak, but when his brown eyes met hers, she couldn't. His mask was off, and the right side of his face was made more distressing by the candlelight, but she was transfixed by the obvious love and adoration in his eyes; the hope that she wouldn't leave him. She felt her resolutions breaking down. She could drown in those eyes………

The phantom sang softly and sweetly, "Christine, I love you." She felt her heart expand and an elated feeling passed through her. She longed to sit beside him and hold him and let their tears wash them both away, but somehow his engagement ring was off of her finger, one that tied her both to Raul and the phantom. She felt as if she were giving a piece of herself away.

As she held the ring out to the phantom she saw all of the hope leave his face. He understood that she was leaving him. A tear laced down his cheek, but he didn't beg her to stay. She pressed the ring into his trembling hand and closed his fingers around it. She put as much love into her gaze as she could, hoping the he would understand and forgive her for her decision. And then she walked away from him.

Raul guided her to the phantom's boat with shaking steps, and for the first time Christine became aware of how much danger they were in. Bits of fire were falling down from the burning opera house and landing with a hiss in the lake. She could hear shouts and screams from up above and thought that she could hear someone crying her name. Meg? She thought dizzily. Before she knew it, she was in the boat and Raul was shoving off with the long black pole. As she hung onto his shoulder, Christine tried to think of something to say to him, but nothing came. Instead, she started a song that she knew the phantom would remember, and her voice rang out among the outcropped rocks with an unsurpassed sweetness. Raul joined her in the end with his rich tenor, and she found herself wishing that he was the phantom instead; that it was the phantom in the boat with her. She imagined him leaning in to kiss her, whispering her name………

Her head spinning, Christine realized she really did love the phantom. He'd been her friend and teacher since her father had died; she owed everything to him. She was just a trophy to Raul, a pretty trophy that he had known as a child, but he didn't know her now. He was in love with someone who didn't exist anymore. Christine struggled with her thoughts, her hand slipping from Raul's shoulder. Where would she and the phantom go? The opera was finished. Would he even take her now, after she'd broken his heart? She knew that she had to try, or else she'd mourn her first true love for the rest of her life. She heard the phantom's voice behind her, "You alone can make my song take flight," and she made her choice. Turning Raul's face to her, she kissed him softly and said, "Thank you for everything." Then she turned and jumped out of the boat.

The water closed over her head and she struggled to reach the surface again. The water was warmer than she expected and it saturated her dress, weighing her down. She panicked a little before coming to her senses and kicking furiously. Finally she came up, sputtering, and heard Raul calling her name. She turned to see him attempting to turn the boat around, his face a whirl of confusion. Struggling to stay afloat, she called out, "No Raul! Get out of here! I'm staying with him, I'm sorry!"

"No, Christine!" He called, "Stay with me………"

But Christine turned around and swam with all of her strength to the shore of the phantom's hideaway. She heard Raul continue to call to her, but she didn't turn around again. Gasping for breath, she finally felt her feet drag the bottom that led to the shore. She dragged herself out of the water, her heavy dress locking around her knees. She flipped her wet hair out of her eyes and looked around. The phantom was standing in front of a mirror with a look of despair and held a brass candlestick in his right hand. With a great cry, he smashed the mirror and it fell away, leaving a dark path visible inside the huge gold frame. He began to step inside it.

"Wait!" Christine cried. He whirled around when he heard her voice, but when he saw her standing there, dripping wet and panting, his face went blank and he just stared at her, his mouth slightly open. Biting her lip, Christine untangled her dress and walked up to him slowly. He still had not moved, but she saw a tear fall onto his cheek. She took a shaky breath and put her left hand up to his scarred face. She smiled a watery smile and then wrapped both arms around his strong waist and buried her face into his shoulder. "I love you," she whispered, and closed her eyes.

Slowly his arms came up and wrapped around her. After a moment of silence, he lifted her face up with one hand. He stepped back, took her by the shoulders, and whispered, "What are you doing?"

He was so vulnerable then. She could almost feel his hope battling with his reason. She tried to step close to him again, but he held her away. "I'm staying with you," she said, "I love you."

He ducked his head and turned away from her, bringing his hands up to cover his face. She just stood there, unsure of what to do next; fearful that he would reject her.

"Oh, Christine," he said softly, "What have I done to brainwash you? You'll have no life with me, you've seen my face."

He turned back to face her. Christine picked up his mask off of a nearby table and placed it on his face. It seemed to be a part of him now, she was so used to seeing him with it on. He looked so handsome.

"I know exactly what I'm doing. We can be happy together. Don't shut me out. Let me in." He didn't answer her, but lifted his hand and gently traced her collarbone with his fingertips, as if he had to assure himself that she was real.

"Please," Christine pleaded. "You're a good man. People will see that. They can see through appearances."

The phantom moved his hand up to her neck and laced his fingers in her hair. "Christine," he said firmly, "I've done murder."

She looked down guiltily, unsure of how to react. He had indeed killed two people in his pursuit of her, and she knew that he was dangerous when provoked, like a wolf locked up in a cage. But what could provoke that side of him if they were together? She knew there was a great deal of good in him, but he had convinced himself that he was worthless. She knew that she could bring him back to humanity, and make him realize that he had a right to the same happiness as everyone else.

With a look of determination, she said, "I know. I can forgive you. I'm not afraid of you."

With a tortured look, he rasped, "Maybe you should be." He turned away and slung his best black cloak around his shoulders. He pocketed a few treasures: a golden locket, some coins, a small key, and a drawing he had done of Christine. He buckled a leather belt and a sword around his wais and she watched the candlelight flash on the blade. He pulled a second cloak across Christine's small frame and took her hand.

"I'm sure you'll come to see sense soon," he said, "but we can't stay here. People are coming."

He led her to the hidden passage beneath the broken mirror and pulled a heavy red curtain over it to conceal its presence. Then he stepped confidently inside it, disappearing from her view.

"Come, Christine," he called softly. Obediently, she stepped into the blackness. She reached out her hand and brushed against his soft cloak, which she clutched tightly and used to pull herself to him. He wrapped one arm reassuringly around her waist and they started walking. Their footsteps echoed dimly and Christine thought that she could hear voices. The Phantom's sword rasped lightly against the wall in some places, making her jump a little.

"Where does this lead?" she asked, breaking the silence.

"Behind the opera house," he answered. "It should start to go uphill soon."

Sure enough, the ground began to tilt upward, and Christine had to take longer strides to keep up with his confident pace. Her legs began to ache, but she kept her spirits up by imaging where the phantom was taking her. Quite suddenly, she realized that she didn't know his name. What was she supposed to call him? Phantom? Troubled, she grabbed his hand and stopped walking. His arm still around her waist, he turned to face her. They were standing very close in the dark tunnel, and she could hear his ragged breathing match her own. She wondered if it was from the uphill climb or from how close they were standing. For her it was a little bit of both.

"Yes?" he whispered, "What is it?"

"This is going to sound ridiculous," she said, "but I don't even know your name." She bit her lip, embarrassed. The phantom just chuckled.

"No one knows my name," he said, "it's been a long time since I needed one." He paused for a minute, as if trying to remember, and then said, "My name was Erik."

She noticed the use of the word "was" instead of "is," but she decided not to push the matter. She snuggled even closer to him, and heard him suck in a surprised breath. She lifted her face up to his and kissed him lightly. His lips trembled beneath hers, so she drew back. He took a deep breath and looked away.

"What?" she asked tentatively, "Have I done something wrong?"

"Oh god, Christine, no. Nothing." He leaned down abruptly and captured her lips perfectly with his own. She seemed to melt against him and the darkness around them felt like home. After a few moments, he pulled away gently.

"I feel like I'm dreaming," Erik said, sounding dazed. "Am I dreaming, Christine?"

"Not at all," she said brightly.

He smiled at her and she saw his eyes flash happily in the darkness.

"Come," he said with a chuckle, "Can't be much further now."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two

An hour later a light opened up at the end of the tunnel and Christine and Erik emerged hand-in-hand from the darkness. Blinking in the sudden light cast by the blazing fire of the opera house, Erik led Christine to a dark alley to the right of the Opera. Together they turned back to watch it burn, both seeing their past among the flames. Firemen had long since given up on the blaze and sat gloomily near their fire carriages, saying what a shame it was to lose such a famous beauty. A pity for Paris, they said. But Erik merely saw his years of hiding melting away. His future lay with Christine, and he was content to watch his lonely past burn. Christine also saw loneliness in the desecrated Opera, but she also saw love and happiness. Here, she had sang to cheering crowds; had roses launched upon the stage to adorn her feet. Here, she had met Meg and Madame Giry, and she had prayed to her father. Would she ever sing again to such thunderous applause? Would she ever feel the same connection to her father? She blinked away a tear and turned away, resting her head on Erik's shoulder.

"Don't worry," He said softly, as if reading her mind, "Nothing will stop our music. We must simply find somewhere else to make it."

Christine smiled and kissed him on his exposed cheek. He smiled at her and took her hand gently in his.

"Let's go," he said, "There have been enough tears tonight."

She nodded and followed him out of the alley. Despite the roaring fire, many of the streets were nearly deserted, and they went several streets before seeing anyone. But as they rounded a corner, police torches flashed up ahead, and Erik pulled Christine quickly into a tiny, filthy alley. He hurriedly guided her to the middle of it and leaned against the wall of stone, pressing Christine tightly to him. She looked up at him with wide eyes, but said nothing. She wondered what would happen when they flashed the light into their alley. Erik's mask was a dead giveaway. Nearly all of Paris must have heard about him by now. They'd take him to prison for murder, maybe even arson. Would Erik be forced to kill again for their protection? Even though she knew that it might be necessary, she didn't know if she could watch him do it. She heard the policemen's footsteps getting closer, their voices louder. Erik shifted Christine so that she stood behind him against the wall, furthest from the approaching danger. He ran his hand reassuringly down her arm before resting it, readily, on the hilt of his sword. Christine closed her eyes. She could hear the police clearly now, and focused entirely on their words and footsteps.

"This is crazy," One of them said irritably. "There's nothing here, we've been searching all night. He's probably dead by now."

His companion answered, "Yes, hopefully he is. And I can't imagine that he would venture out into the city anyway. The people who were at the Opera said that his face was terrifying, even from the back of the room."

Christine realized that they were talking about the phantom. She felt herself burn with anger at their cruelty. How dare they speak of her Erik like he had no soul! He shifted uncomfortably beside her, but she kept her eyes firmly closed.

"After we check this street we should go grab a drink," the first officer said. The second man chuckled.

Quite suddenly, Christine got a crazy idea. Without considering the dangers, she ran out of the alley, straight at the officers, shrieking for help.

"Officer!" She cried, "Please help me!" She nearly ran into one of them, and clung to his uniform hysterically.

"Come now, miss, what's the matter?" The second man asked in a bored voice.

"There was a man in a mask chasing me near the Opera, I couldn't get away. He just kept closing in- I was so scared. I think I might have lost him now, but it was horrible, he was shouting such terrifying things!" She buried her face in her hands, and shook her shoulders as if she were crying.

The officers looked at her with renewed interest. "Did you say a man in a mask?" One of them asked her.

"Yes," she practically shrieked, "A mask that only covered half of his face!"

The second officer grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. "Shut up girl! You're all right. Where was this man last?"

Christine thought quickly, and said, "Almost three streets over. I don't think he liked being too far from the Opera house."

The officers looked at one another triumphantly, no doubt imagining the bonuses they would receive such an important arrest. The first officer took off running in the direction Christine mentioned. The second took a moment to look at her again and say, "Thank you miss. We'll catch him for you."

"It was the phantom that they're all talking about, wasn't it?" She asked in a small voice.

"Yes, miss, we think so. Run along home now." And then he was off too, and soon out of sight.

Christine let out a huge sigh of relief. She turned towards the alley and beckoned for Erik to come out. Nothing happened. Frowning slightly, she walked to the edge of the dark alley and peered inside it, searching for the dim outline of his mask, but there was nothing. She felt her heart begin to pound furiously.

"Erik?" She called, panic creeping into her voice. No one answered.

Then, a voice said from behind her, "I'm right here."

She whirled around and saw Erik striding towards her from across the street. He was smiling.

"How'd you get all the way over there?" She asked, bewildered.

"I'm good at sneaking." He replied with a grin. "You were wonderful. I almost believed you myself."

Then his smile dimmed slightly and he looked down. "For a moment, I thought that you had decided to leave me," he said quietly. But then he looked up at her again and she saw a beaming happiness in his eyes. He held out his hand to her and she took it, relieved that the danger had passed.

"Where are we going, Erik?" She asked in a low voice.

"My father's house." He replied. She looked at him in amazement.

"Your father?" She asked, disbelieving.

"Yes. I'll explain when we get there," he said, not dismissing her, but moving on to a more comfortable topic.

"It's not far from here," he added.

Trying to ease his tension, Christine said, "I seem to be hearing that a lot tonight." She smiled gently, aware that Erik was still unused to her company in anything but singing lessons. She hoped that he would gain more self-consciousness once he figured out that she loved everything about him. Her mind suddenly flashed to the faces of two dead men. She closed her mind firmly to those thoughts and focused on Erik's eyes, which were looking around to make sure that there were no more surprises up ahead.

Two streets and ten minutes later, they were standing in front of a small brick house with a blue door. A tiny picket fence surrounded a garden pf weeds. Erik led Christine up three steps and took a little gold key from his pocket that she vaguely remembered seeing at the Opera. It felt like lifetimes ago. Erik looked down at the little key in his hand, then at Christine.

"I'm sorry," He said softly, "I haven't been here since I was a child. It's very unsettling."

Christine was touched by the vulnerability in his voice. She reached down and took the key from him, then hugged him tightly.

"It will be all right," she said brightly, and then looked up at him. He took the opportunity that he'd been waiting for and kissed her. His arms wrapped around her waist and pressed her to him. He held onto him tightly with one hand and sank her other into his soft black hair. Moments passed unnoticed, and they could hear nothing except for their pounding hearts and urgent breaths. Erik felt Christine rock against him, and feelings he'd long denied rushed to the surface. Her soft, feminine scent surrounded him, and he felt like he was drowning. Her lips rose to meet his more urgently and with fewer pauses. Sensing the building of some great and unknown power, Erik clung to her, kissing her with long, drugging strokes. Breathless, he dragged himself from her tantalizing mouth and buried his face in the soft skin of her neck. She sighed softly and he took that for encouragement. Softly, he kissed the hollow of her shoulder, then made small circles there with his tongue. He slowly moved up her neck and around her jaw line, then moved away and looked down at her. Christine's eyes were closed and she whimpered softly, reaching for him with a trembling hand. He took her hand within his large one and tucked his other underneath her chin. She opened her eyes at his touch and looked slightly dazed.

"What's wrong?" She asked. She looked hurt, and it was all Erik could do to keep from kissing her again. He wasn't an experienced man- what woman would let someone with a face like his touch her- and yet, Christine looked so radiant that he knew that he wanted more of her. He just wasn't sure how it would happen, or when. He knew the next logical step, but he didn't know how to enact it exactly, and he was sure that someone as innocent as Christine didn't either. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

"Nothing is wrong, Christine." He said. "I just think that we need to get inside."

"Right." She moved in front of him and stepped up to the door. He couldn't help but look at her as she gently placed the key in the lock. She looked back at him, as if for reassurance, and Erik nodded at her, to tell her that it was okay. She turned the key to the right, heard a click, and the door slid open a couple of inches. It was dark inside.

"There should be a lamp near the door, on top of a wooden table." Erik said.

Christine extended her arms in front of her and felt for a table near the door. For a few seconds she touched nothing but air, but then cold wood grazed her fingertips. She felt along the edge of the table until the cool brass base of a lamp touched her arm. She picked it up carefully and turned the knob on the side. The oil inside the lamp sloshed slightly as she handled the lamp; finally it lit. She took a few more steps into the house so that Erik could come in. He hesitated for a moment, then set his mouth firmly and stepped inside. He closed and locked the door behind him, and after taking the gold key from his Christine, placed gently back into his pocket. Christine directed the lamp around the walls of the room so that she could see the furniture. The walls were wallpapered with tiny red flowers, and the floor was carpeted in a matching dark red. What appeared to be couches chairs lurked underneath dusty white sheets like ghosts.

The adjoining room was a kitchen, with a large brick fireplace and round, wooden table with three chairs around it. An old, rickety high chair was folded up against the wall. The floor was made of wood and it was incredibly dusty. Each step left their footprints on it, and their cloaks left long, dragging marks. The walls of this room were a dull yellow. A wooden cabinet and counter stood to the right of the fireplace. Christine opened it carefully and saw porcelain plates and bowls stacked neatly inside. There were no other rooms.

Christine looked to Erik, confused. Surely there must be at least a bedroom and a bath. Smiling, Erik took her hand and guided her to a door in the living room that she had assumed was a closet. But when Erik opened it, it revealed eight wooden stairs leading up to a second floor. He took the lamp and went first, shining the light into the first room on the right. It was plain, containing only a large bed with a heavy wooden headboard. The walls were white, and there was a small window with red curtains pulled back that faced the street.

Right across from that room was a modern bathroom, with a large club-footed tub and a chain toilet. There was no mirror, only a large painting of red roses. When she leaned in to inspect it, Christine saw it was signed with deft hand in swirling letters, Erik. She looked up at him, startled, but he just looked into her eyes with a serious sadness that left her speechless. He moved down the hall to the next room, and she followed silently. This one contained a grand piano and several music stands, as well as a folded up painting easel. Christine gasped when she saw a violin case sitting propped up against the wall, thinking instantly of her father.

"This was my favorite room." Erik said softly, and Christine turned around to face him. "I'll sleep in here," he continued, "And you can have the bed in the bedroom down the hall."

Christine looked down, embarrassed. "But," she said slowly, "it's a big bed Erik, and I'd be scared to be alone. Stay with me?" She held out her hand to him. He looked at it for a few seconds, then took it, and they walked back to the bedroom.

Erik set the lamp on the floor and pulled off his heavy cloak, draping it across the headboard. He unbuckled his sword and set it upright against the wall, within arms reach of the bed. Christine took off her cloak as well, and draped it on top of his. They stood there awkwardly for a minute, until Christine laid down on the right side of the bed and beckoned for Erik to join her. Shaking, he crawled up beside her, but did not touch her. They both looked at the ceiling.

"Erik," she said, reaching for his hand, "I'm so happy right now. I still cannot believe that this all happened."

She turned on her side to look at him, and let go of his hand so that she could touch his face. He nuzzled into her palm a bit, and looked up at her adoringly.

"Christine," he said honestly, "I never though that I would ever be this happy. I do not think that I deserve to be this happy. But please, reconsider your decision. I could live for years off of the mere memory of this night with you. Don't stay with me out of pity, you will end up resenting me, and I can't even stand the thought of that."

He fixed his eyes back on the ceiling, determined not to see the relief that he thought would wash over her face at his words.

"Oh Erik," she sighed, "How can I make you understand?" She turned her face so that he was forced to look at her. "I'm not leaving. I want to be with you. I love you so much; I could never resent you."

She leaned in slowly to kiss him, but hovered just inches away from his lips. Making him realize that if he wanted to kiss her, he had to trust her intentions enough to make the first move on his own. He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand and she closed her eyes. His lips were trembling and unsure, but once they met hers, all doubt vanished. He knew that this was where he was meant to be. The awkwardness between them was gone and Christine pressed herself against him, making him groan. She smiled against his lips and pressed again. He broke off the kiss and smiled at her.

"Go to sleep, Christine," he whispered.

He tucked her head underneath his chin and wrapped his arms snuggly around her. They both closed their eyes, breathing in sync with each other. A few minutes later, Christine was asleep. Erik focused on the way that her eyelashes curled on her cheek, the slender curve of her neck, and the slight smile that graced her lips. He had never felt more complete in his life. He allowed himself to remember the taste of her kisses. And when his eyes could look at her no more, he too drifted off to sleep. Both of them dreamed of tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

Christine woke up slowly and deliberately. When she opened her eyes she knew exactly where she was: Erik's father's house. Endless possibilities for this phenomenon had popped up in her dreams, but she was extremely eager to hear the real story. She wondered how long she would have to wait before she could coax it out of Erik. For it seemed that, no matter how long Erik had known her, there were certain things that were almost tactless to bring up, and his past was one of them. It was an unwritten rule of course; Erik would never be rude enough to tell her that something was none of her business. It was merely a feeling that she got; the way that his posture changed and became hard, bitter. Yes, she would have to build up her courage before daring to bring up such a subject.

Willing her curiosity to subside, Christine sat up and looked around at the bedroom that had also appeared in her dreams. She smiled as she saw that the window was propped open, even though it was chilly in the room. Erik knew how she liked the fresh, crisp air to flow around her. He knew so much about her that it was somewhat shocking at times. But not this morning – this morning it was wonderful. She didn't even have to look at the bedroom door to know that it would be closed, probably so that Erik could move around and tidy up without disturbing her. Christine wondered if he had even slept during the night. He'd spent so long wandering the dark corridors of the Opera house that it seemed he barely slept at all, like a creature of immortality. But Erik was flesh and blood, and his aversion to sleep needed to be remedied. So many things about him were broken, in a sense, and Christine mentally pondered about what she could possibly do to bring the sun back into his life. A few moments later, while she was still deep in thought, sitting with her chin resting upon her hand in concentration, the door slid slightly open with a light squeak.

"Christine?" Erik asked softly, so as not to wake her if she was still sleeping.

She smiled at the sound of his voice and turned her face to the door.

"Yes, I'm awake. Come and sit with me." She answered.

He entered the bedroom sheepishly and left the door open behind him, which Christine marveled at. He was normally so private! But she assumed that since this was his house, and they were probably the only two who knew about it, that they were safe enough. Erik shuffled toward the bed and sat down somewhat timidly next to her.

"Well," he began slowly, "How was your night?"

Christine tilted her head up with a laugh and looked briefly at the ceiling. Her heart fluttered at the husky tint in his voice. It felt wonderful to laugh again, to feel all of the stress melt away, and she sighed when the laughter died away. When she turned her face to look at Erik, he was staring at her as if he'd never seen her before, shocked by her laughter and torn between what it might mean and what he hoped it meant. And then, completely unexpectedly, he too threw his head up and let out a loud peal of laughter. His features were incredibly beautiful, even with the mask on, or perhaps with the addition of it. Seeing him laugh this openly made Christine laugh again, and she threw her arms around him, feeling the sleeves of her dress tighten with the effort. Her sudden embrace sent them both tumbling backwards, and they fell onto the fluff of blankets that covered the bed. In another unexpected twist, Erik flipped her over onto her stomach and began tickling her sides mercilessly. She laughed harder than ever, tears of mirth trickling from the corners of her deep brown eyes. She twisted back and forth, unknowingly edging closer and closer to the edge of the massive bed. Quite suddenly, she landed on the floor with a very un lady-like thud. Erik stopped laughing abruptly and rolled off of the bed to sit beside her on the floor. She made a very pretty picture, with her skirts spread out all over the floor; her cheeks flushed an appealing pink, and her eyes bright with happiness.

"I'm sorry love," He said to her, "I got carried away. Are you alright?"

He looked like he half expected her to yell at him for his stupidity, or to quietly explain to him that he needed to be more careful. Instead, she let out another angelic giggle, before answering:

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm not made of glass, Erik."

"Why were we laughing again?" Erik asked with a grin. "I thought that I'd asked a perfectly reasonable question. What was so amusing to you?" He had caught his breath and his voice was carefully even, but she sensed the hidden seriousness in his words. He thought that for some reason, she was laughing at him. She squared her shoulders and resolved to put his fear to rest quickly.

"I just thought that it was funny. It was the best night of my life, since my father died, and you were treating it as delicately as if you expected my reply to be gruesome. I've never felt so complete in my life. I found it amusing that you would doubt something that I sensed so readily" Christine bit her lip, hoping that she had phrased everything correctly. Sometimes, when she was around Erik, her thoughts seemed to move to fast for her to keep up, and she often felt like she said things poorly, and wished that she had the forethought to mentally prepare herself. At least to keep her from saying something dumb.

Erik shifted next to her, and again she worried that she had offended him. But no, years of mental and emotional neglect had taught him not to be offended easily. He just chuckled under his breath and replied:

"So it's not my timidity that you find amusing, merely, my stupidity for needing to ask such a question?" He seemed to find the whole situation extremely adorable. "I suppose that my ruffled feathers have been smoothed. Let my stupidity be forgotten." His eyes seemed to shine in his face, and with a shock, Christine realized that she no longer viewed his face in halves, as she used to. Rather, she looked at his face in its totality, and the white edges of the masks seemed to blend perfectly with his smooth skin. It was not fragmented like she had once thought, but rather, seemed to reach a whole new plane of perfection. Maybe it was his eyes. Or perhaps, it was her eyes that were changing.

Christine realized abruptly that she was staring at him, and that Erik had fallen silent, watching her intently with his angelic eyes. He took her small hand in his large one, and held it up to his cheek.

"Nothing compares to you," he whispered. "You're like no one I've ever known; I never dreamed that anyone could be so beautiful, so caring, and so absolutely charming. It seems that I've been waiting for you all my life." He brushed a curly strand of hair behind her ear. "And I would wait forever for you."

Christine leaned in to kiss him, closing her eyes when their lips touched, and an electric current seemed to fly down her spine and send warmth throughout her body.

"I love you," she whispered in reply to his soliloquy.

That was when they both heard the door open even further with a familiar squeak. The point of a sword clanged against the doorframe as Raoul plunged into the room, his face livid with rage and disdain, and his blue eyes glued to Christine's face.

"I've come to free you from your torment," He declared impassionedly, and drew his sword.


	4. Chapter 4

"I've come to free you from your torment," Raoul declared impassionedly, and drew his sword. He lunged forward, his sword pointed slightly down and in Erik's direction.

With a shriek, Christine leapt from her spot on the floor, and jumped in front of Erik, her long skirts swirling around her and almost tripping her. She stood with her back to him and her eyes on Raoul, but her hands clung to Erik's trousers to keep him close to her.

"You're quarrel is with me Raoul," she said with a shaky voice, "Not with him. Put your sword down!" She watched his eyes desperately, searching for any semblance of reason. Unfortunately, she found none. He looked horrible, his face pale, his eyes wild, and although he seemed out of breath, he stood firmly and with fervent purpose.

"No Christine," he said with a sneer, "My quarrel is with him, not only because he played tricks on your mind and then kidnapped you, but also because he is responsible for the deaths of at least two honest men. Now move out of my way and let me finish this!"

Christine felt Erik put his hands on her upper arms and slowly try to move her to the side. She resisted fiercely, planting her feet firmly and leaning back into him with urgency, shaking her head.

"I'm not afraid of him, love," Erik whispered in her ear. One of her hands let go of the death grip on his trousers and clasped his hand nearest her. She took a deep breath.

"Raoul," she said firmly, "I swear t o you that my mind is my own. I'm sorry that I had to leave the Opera. It wasn't because you weren't good enough. I just needed Erik; the way that I need music, the way that I need air. You have been a dear friend to me, Raoul, please understand that I meant you no harm, and neither did Erik." The gentle firmness left her voice, as she demanded harshly, "Now put that sword down!"

Raoul seemed to deflate for an instant, and his firm grip on his sword hilt appeared to loosen momentarily. Christine dared to hope that she and Erik might escape disaster after all. But then, quite suddenly, the anger returned to his stance, and the sword snapped up again.

"You almost had me there, Christine. Good for you. He's taught you how to manipulate people's emotions beautifully. "

With those words, he lunged with his sword to the right of her, hoping to avoid hitting her while somehow managing to hit Erik. As soon as he moved, Erik thrust Christine away from him, pushing her toward the wall. He slid out of the way of Raoul's hasty charge just in time, and when Raoul suddenly changed direction, he ducked under the blade and spun towards the headboard of the bed, where he had left his own sword in its scabbard the night before. With one quick movement, he drew it from its sheath, and spun around to face Raoul with the sword held tightly in his right hand. His eyes snapped over to Christine before quickly refocusing on Raoul, who was taking tentative steps closer to him, searching for an opening to exploit.

Without waiting for Raoul to pluck up his courage, Erik darted forward, his blade flashing in the previously harmless morning light. His sword clanged against Raoul's with a metallic screech, and Christine pressed herself tightly to the wall, as if trying to disappear inside of it. Raoul's sword consistently met wherever Erik's sword fell, and Christine felt a slight sense of relief as the fight wore on and no blood was drawn. Both men were soon tired and worn down, sweat dripping down their temples and their perfect techniques growing sloppier.

"Christine!" Raoul called out breathlessly, "Please, run! Save yourself from this creature of darkness! He's a murderer! He killed your father!"

Christine shrank back from his words, her eyes growing dark with anger and disbelief. Erik turned to face her with horrified eyes, turning his back on Raoul, and in that moment, Raoul slashed his sword downward with blazing swiftness. Christine watched the blood flow from Erik's arm as if in slow motion, and heard his cry of pain through dull ears. First blood was drawn. But it couldn't be true. Erik could not have killed her father. Erik was her angel, her saving grace…

"He killed your father, Christine, and I can prove it!"

She realized dimly that she had sunk down onto the floor of the bedroom. Through blurry eyes she saw Erik grab Raoul's sword blade with the palm of his hand, and with a cry of pain, wrenched it out of Raoul's grip. He threw both swords out the bedroom door and slammed it with a dull thud, leaving a red handprint that settled in stark contrast to the white door. Raoul stood there, shocked, his face blank and his hands limp at his sides. Erik tripped his way over to Christine's side, sliding to his knees beside her, and ignoring Raoul, ripped a piece of sheet off of the bed and wrapped it quickly around is bleeding palm. He pressed his hot cheek to her clammy one and whispered urgently, "It's not true, my love. I swear to you that it isn't true." He looked at her with pleading eyes, placing one of her tiny hands inside his injured one, wincing at the contact, but unwilling to pull away.

She met his eyes and quietly stood up, removing her hand from his. She stepped confidently across the room and stood in front of Raoul, waiting for him to meet her steady gaze. And as his blue eyes locked desperately to hers, she raised her hand and slapped him in one swift motion. The crack of her palm resounded through the room, and he took a step back, his hand automatically reaching up to touch the offended skin. A tear slid down his cheek.

Christine leaned in close to his face, and in a voice that was very different from the one she normally used, she hissed, "That is a lie, Raoul. How dare you lie to me about my father? How dare you!" She almost reached out to hit him again, but somehow stopped herself.

Erik sat passively in the corner, his head in his hands, breathing raggedly and shaking visibly. Raoul turned his eyes onto him, and said clearly, to be sure that he heard, "This monster is no angel, Christine. And I don't believe that he's told you everything. You are young, and hot-blooded, and he works that against you in ways that I never did. Find out the truth about your savior. And when you decide to leave him, you can find me at my summer home in southern Paris. You remember it well, I presume?"

Christine merely nodded. "Good," he said. "And you might want to keep your distance for a minute, dear," he added patronizingly, nodding in Erik's direction, "Because he doesn't look at all stable." And with that, he strode quickly out of the bedroom. Christine heard a light rubbing sound and he picked his sword up off of the carpet in the hallway, and then his quick footsteps resumed. She hastened a look at Erik, but he didn't look up, so she darted out into the hallway after Raoul.

She caught up to him in the kitchen and grabbed his elbow, whirling him around to face her. His sword came up easily from his side, but when he saw that it was her, he relaxed again. "What can I do for you, Miss Daae?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.

"You claimed to have proof that Erik killed my father. But you can't prove anything, can you? You just wanted me to leave him and go with you."

"It doesn't matter whether I have proof or not. I think that it's true. You just don't want to believe it because it would ruin your petty fantasies of seductive music and high romance." He turned away from her and started to move toward the front door, but she stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm.

"Please wait, Raoul," she whispered. He turned slowly to face her, his eyes masked and his face carefully blank.

"Don't, Christine," he said softly. "Please don't do this."

A tear snaked down her cheek and Raoul raised a tentative hand to wipe it away, but she back stepped angrily, brushing at it with her own hasty fingers before resuming her harsh tone from upstairs.

"You are a liar, Raoul. Madame Giry would never have allowed me to continue my lessons with him if she thought that he had been responsible for the death of my father. You have simply run out of ideas, and you're scared for my safety. I appreciate that, but it is no longer your concern." She looked at him with steely eyes and gestured towards the door. "Now please leave."

He laughed mockingly, and placed his hand roughly on the doorknob. "Right!" He exclaimed roughly, "I forgot. You, being his current obsession, think that you are under his limitless protection." He leaned in towards her, tears filling his crystal eyes and sincerity bubbling up in his voice. "Did you ever love me at all?" He asked, "Or was it just a game to keep you busy?"

Christine turned her face away from him, but he reached out with gentle hands and lifted her face back to his own, her lips inches from his. "Yes," she whispered, "I did love you. I still do. But it's a different kind of love than the love I have for him. That doesn't mean that it isn't true, because it is. It just cannot be, now."

Raoul brought his face even closer to hers, until she could smell his minty breath and feel him shaking. She tried to pull away, but he had somehow twisted his other hand up in her hair, and he held her firmly in place. She tried twisting to the side, hoping that he didn't realize how tightly he held her; that it as just his emotions having momentary control. But his grip tightened as she twisted, and she let out a tiny whimper of pain.

"Let me go, Raoul," she whispered, her eyes meeting his again. He shook his head silently, and bent down to kiss her. She surged backwards, but his hand forced her lips to his, and he pressed against her urgently. Once this would have made her knees weak and her head spin, but now it was merely a shadow of what she and Erik had shared, and Christine was appalled. She kept her lips firmly closed, and willed the kiss to end.

Finally he released her lips from his own and used his free hand to open the front door. "I will save you from this monster," he said softly, "whether you desire to be saved or not." He wrapped his hand around her waist, and began to drag her from the little house.

She twisted frantically in his arms, wincing as he pulled harder on her long hair. Gathering as much air as she could with his arm pressing around her midsection, she screamed, "Erik!" But Raoul quickly covered her mouth with his hand, and she had no idea if Erik had heard her. She prayed that he had. The widow in the bedroom that faced into the street was open, after all, and Erik had simply been sitting on the floor when she had followed Raoul out of the bedroom.

Raoul had barely gotten her three houses away when she heard the soft tread of booted feet behind them, and the familiar metallic rasp as a sword was drawn from its scabbard. "Let her go, Raoul." Erik demanded, and Christine let out a sigh of relief.

Raoul whirled around to face him, pulling Christine with him, but found a sword pointed discreetly at his jugular. Stunned at Erik's swiftness, he sputtered, "How…" and then Erik ripped the sword out of his hand.

"I'm an excellent sneaker," he said, and winked at Christine. "Now, release Miss Daae so that we can all get back to our pleasant morning activities." Raoul grimaced, but reluctantly let go of Christine's hair, and she rushed to Erik's side. "I understand that you think me to be a monster," Erik said softly, his eyes full of compassion, "and I understand that you only want what is best for Christine. And for that, you deserve gratitude, not harshness." Raoul gaped at him, stunned. "However," Erik continued, "should you ever try to take Christine anywhere against her will again, understand that I will be forced to stop you, and I will not be so compassionate next time."

Raoul nodded slightly, eyeing the sword that was still pointed at his throat.

"Forgive me," Erik said, and sheathed his sword. He reached out and handed Raoul his sword as well, holding the hilt out to him. He gestured down the street, and Raoul tentatively took his sword, and seeing no opposition, he turned and walked away from them. He looked back at Christine once, but she was looking at Erik, and so he didn't bother to look back again.

Once Raoul was out of sight, Erik turned to face Christine, and said in an ordinary voice, "Well, dear, what would you like for breakfast?"

Christine looked at him in disbelief, and then laughed softly. She reached for his uninjured hand, and they walked inside the house and quietly shut the door behind them.


	5. Chapter 5

Christine wiped tears of hard laughter away from her eyes as Erik concluded his hilarious imitations of the Prima Donna Carlotta. Standing in the kitchen, facing his adoring audience, he curtsied only a little wobbly and attempted to bat his eyelashes at her, pursing his lips into a nearly perfect imitation of Carlotta's "seductive" flirting. Christine clapped her hands enthusiastically, calling "Bravo!" and blowing kisses. Grinning proudly, he knelt at the side of her chair, and without any hesitation, kissed her sweetly on the forehead.

"I think, sir," she teased, "That you were perhaps a diva in your past life. I could never bat my eyelashes so!"

Erik inclined his head towards her in thanks, and replied, "I cannot reveal the secrets of my feminine capabilities. But you, young beauty, need but open your mouth to sing and men of all ages fall passionately in love with you. So I believe that you have had far more practice being a diva than I." He said this proudly and a bit possessively, not needing encouragement to praise her amiable qualities.

"So which of us then, is the greater vixen? I believe that it must be you, good sir. For though my voice has bloomed under your patient instruction, I remember the days when it was not so. You seem to have been born with the utter perfection of melody and harmony and have no doubt made many ladies tremble to be yours. I imagine that you made some of them faint in their seats during our last performance…" Her expression darkened a bit as she recalled her shameful behavior during the first and only performance of Erik's opera, Don Juan Triumphant. She had removed his mask in front of the entire audience, in an attempt to capture him and expose him to the world, and to herself. It had been her last attempt to fight her love for him and save herself from the darkness that she had seen lurking in Erik's soul. Thinking of that day, which seemed so long ago, made her shudder with guilt.

Thinking not of those things, but of something much sweeter, he looked at her seriously and said, "There is only one lady that I ever wanted to be mine. I sing for her alone. The emotions in my song are for her alone. The melodies that I write are for her alone." She clasped his hand, and he comfortably rested his forehead against hers. "Remember, Christine?" he asked quietly, and then sang in the sweetest voice she had ever been blessed to hear, "You alone can make my song take flight…"

Christine wiped a solitary tear from the corner of her right eye and bit her lip. She took a deep breath and said a bit shakily, "Yes, my love, you are definitely the greater vixen."

Erik laughed the deep laugh that Christine had come to cherish dearly, and picked her up effortlessly around the waist and spun her around the little kitchen, holding her in the air above his head. She squealed with laughter and held tight to his broad shoulders, before he rested her gently upon the wooden floor. He took her right hand in his own and placed her left hand on the top of his shoulder, and then pulled her close, wrapping his right hand around her waist. He began to glide her gracefully around the kitchen, humming an ever-changing tune to match their dance. Christine recognized bits of the melody from old opera arias, but others she didn't know. She assumed that Erik had written them himself, but she didn't ask. Filled with love for the man behind the mask, she rested her head upon his shoulder, with her lips turned against his neck. He trembled slightly with every breath of hers that brushed against his skin, and so she experimented a bit by kissing his neck slowly and deliberately, caressing his skin in tiny circles with her tongue in some spots, and dropping feather-like contact in others. A few moments later, she realized that their lazy dance had ended, and that she and Erik were standing still in the kitchen. His hands were tight around her, holding her close to him, and his breathing was heavy. Unable to bear it any longer, Erik cupped her chin in his hands and lifted her lips to his own, murmuring, "Christine, I love you…" and for the first time since seeing Raoul, he kissed her, tenderly and lovingly.

She placed one hand demandingly on the side of his face and made their slow and gentle contact harder by rubbing against him like she had during their first night in the little house. She put her other hand just under the collar of his shirt and felt the hotness of his skin. Unconsciously, Erik positioned Christine lightly against the wall, and she didn't even notice for more than an instant. Their growing passion and desire simply felt right, and even though neither of them had experienced it before, they recognized it for what it was and did not shy away from it. Erik's hand moved up to trace her jaw line, and breaking away from her eager lips, he slowly trailed kisses up and down her neck and collarbone. He gently pushed the shoulder of her dress to the side, but did not try to remove it. His lips followed where his hands caressed, and Christine wished with all her heart to stay in this place forever, to have time stop, for surely no moment could be more perfect than this one. The walls that had existed between them at the opera house had completely dissolved. With only her own choices to make and no one else's emotions but Erik's to consider, Christine felt more free than she had ever felt in her life. Her hot kisses and eager response to Erik's touch proved that she had indeed found the one man in the world that she knew she could trust. No man had ever touched her the way that Erik had, not even Raoul.

Raoul's touch had been possessive and a bit arrogant. He had been proud to have her on his arm at the masquerade ball, not because he loved her or ever could love her, but because she was the prettiest and newest addition to the public eye of the opera popular. Having known her in his childhood, she was like a favorite toy, which, to the sorrow of its owner, had been lost and then joyfully found again, the now grown child ecstatic at having its lost item returned. Perhaps she should have resented him for this, but she did not, and she didn't stop to wonder why she didn't. Perhaps she should have resented him for trying to steal her away from Erik, but she did not. She had meant what she had told him; she did love Raoul. But her love for him was the love of an awestruck teenager, and her love for Erik was the love of an awakened woman. And until now, she had never been conscious of the fact that she was indeed a woman. But there could be no other reason for her skin to quiver underneath Erik's hands, or for her lips to open so readily for his own.

Erik hands came to rest on the back of Christine's gown, where he hesitantly fingered the laces that would undo the entire garment. With resolution, he broke their feverish kissing and held her face in both of his hands, staring deep into her eyes with all the love and devotion she had come to see straight through the mask he wore, as if it no longer existed. His eyes were liquid pools of fire, burning with such intensity that she felt herself blush the slightest bit, but refused to turn her eyes away.

"Christine," he whispered huskily, "I've wanted you to be mine ever since I started tutoring you. I want you in the most complete way a man could ever want a woman. That's what 'Past the Point of No Return' was about. This fire threatens to consume me from the inside out; the temptation is nearly unbearable. But we must wait."

This was the last thing that she had expected Erik to say, and her eyes widened in surprise. "What?" she whispered, hurt by his rejection, but unable to hide her feelings successfully.

Erik kissed her swollen lips softly and then kissed her cheek and forehead. "You're gorgeous, love, it's not you. But I am afraid of what might happen if we join in that way. I have no desire to trap you into a life that you do not want, but if we do this now, I will be unable to live without you. You've done things with me that no woman has ever done before. It makes me weak. And I refuse to be weak for you."

Christine opened her mouth to speak, but he gently placed his finger over her lips, not yet finished. "I know my character, Christine, and I know yours. My body is practically screaming at me to make you mine. But I will not. Not yet. You would do this to please me, and it would make me happy, but you don't yet understand what a precious gift you would be giving up to me. You are young, Christine, and I could not live with myself if you came to resent me for taking advantage of your feelings in that way. Once you give your virginity to me, you can give it to no other man."

Christine reached up and pulled his hands away from her face and took a step backwards. Tears shimmered in her eyes, but she set her chin and squared her shoulders, in an attempt to keep the tears at bay.

"Then you are refusing me?" She asked roughly, emotion harsh in her voice.

Erik rushed forward, his face a blaze of pain and guilt, but she raised her hand to stop him, and he abruptly dropped his hands and stayed where he was.

"I am not a child, Erik! And I do not understand you. You want me, yet you do not take me. You love me, but you keep me at a distance. Do you still doubt that I love you? How could you think me to be so shallow? That I would stay with you until I grew bored and thought you to be tiresome, and then leave? You have misjudged me so harshly, that I wonder at you knowing me at all. My virginity is mine to give, and if you think it so precious, perhaps I should tell you that I gave it to Raoul! Maybe then you would take me, as you should. I am not an angel, Erik! I am flesh and blood, like you!"

Erik looked down at his feet, and clenched his hands into fists, wrapping them around himself, standing with his feet spread slightly apart, as if taking a harsh beating. A tear fell from under his mask and landed on the wooden floor, leaving a tiny ring that stood in stark contrast in Christine's gaze. She felt horrible for making him take such a defensive position. She felt like the same type of people who had called him a monster, chased him away, whispered horrible things about him. He had stood just that way when he had leaned against the wall in the depths of the Opera, after letting Christine go with Raoul.

But Christine found, that although she hated making him feel insecure and beaten, that she could not back down from this. Injured vanity and disappointment seemed to make her blood burn like acid in her veins. Her voice rose slightly. "Erik, I left the Opera with you! I left behind the only family that I have known since my father died. I left behind my singing career and all of my possessions. I came to this little house of your father's asking no explanation, demanding nothing from you! Why do you still doubt me? You aren't refusing me to save me; you are refusing me to save yourself! I am trying to give myself to you completely, why do you hold back?"

Abruptly, Erik raised his face up, and with a sneer unlike any she had ever seen, raised his hand and snatched the white mask off of his face. The distorted features on the right side of his face were not nearly as shocking to Christine as they once were, but his sudden anger made her shrink back unconsciously, and Erik took that one involuntary movement as the worst possible sign. With a grimace, he threw the mask as hard as he could at the wall, and it thudded against it with a bang before sliding to floor and resting there, face up.

"This is why I hold back Christine!" He shouted. Tears flowed freely down both sides of his face. His eyes were twisted with anguish and his face was red from restraint. He jabbed a finger at his face. "This is why I hold back! This ghastly figure that haunts nightmares and makes young girls scream! My own mother could not bear to look at me! She was bound to me through life, I was a part of her in ways that you and I can never be joined, and she threw this mask at me and demanded that I take myself away from her sore eyes!"

He gestured at his face again, continuing to yell, "This is why I hold back! This demonic visage that even makes me shudder! This curse that poisons my insides and makes me a killer! Because this is a symbol of evil, despair, and loneliness. Because this makes everyone leave!"

He was shaking uncontrollably and fell to his knees in front of her, no longer seeing her, lost in his own hell, one that he had created for himself when no one else was there to show him light. Christine started toward him, tears dripping down her face, but he rose up again suddenly and lurched around, picking up a chair and throwing it at the wall. Two legs snapped off, and it landed in a heap, next to the mask that seemed to glow, like a sinister reminder of some imagined sin. Christine backed up a bit, unsure of how to react, or what he would do next aware that somehow, she had caused this torment to explode.

Erik raised his eyes and hands to the ceiling and screamed, "Why me? What great sin did I commit? What am I paying for?" His face was a perfect symbol of despair and agony, and it hurt something deep inside of Christine to see him this way.

He fell down to his knees again, and great sobs wrenched from him, his chest heaved with broken gasps of air. He brought one hand up to cover his face, perhaps in embarrassment as he remembered his audience, perhaps just as a reflex reaction of not wearing his mask. He rocked back and forth, and one hand came around his front and clutched at his chest, as if trying to keep his heart inside his body.

Christine could stand aside no longer, and even though she knew that he might not want her anywhere near him in his condition, she sank to her knees beside him and gently touched his shoulder. He looked up at her for an instant, and his shaking stopped, but he was conscious of the fact that the bad side of his face was closest to her, and tried to duck his head away. She grabbed the other side of his face forcefully, and turned him back to her.

"No, Erik," she said firmly. "No more of this. Do not turn away from me." He didn't reply, but resumed his shaking. Christine swallowed and wiped at his tears before wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "I'm sorry, love," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

He finally gave up on his resistance, and like a young child, turned his body into hers as if trying to be completely covered and protected. He laid his head down on her breast and clutched at her with clumsy fingers, the great sobs growing quieter until they were silent tears, and his shaking subsided.

"I hold back," he said softly, "because of the fear that I am afraid I will always carry with me. I cannot bear to have you turn out like the rest, Christine. I can bear some things, but I could not bear that…"

Christine kissed the top of his head, and waited for him to continue.

"If I let you get that close to me, if I let you completely in, I will have no defenses left. I will forget the wrongs done to me; I will forget the horrible things that I have done in return. I will forget that I am a monster…" He stopped there and let out a choked gasp, clutching her more closely than ever. "All I will know is that I love you, and if you turn out to be like the rest, if you leave me, it will destroy me body and soul. How can I open myself up to such despair? How can I let you have that much control over me? I am unworthy of anything that you have to give, how long until you come to recognize that like I did? I couldn't live with it, Christine… I couldn't live…"

And then he fell silent, and his breathing slowed, and when Christine looked down at his face after a long time had passed, both of his eyes were closed and the tears on his face had dried. He had fallen asleep in her arms, exhausted from tears and pain and fear.

Once she realized this, Christine finally let her own tears fall. She clutched at him the way that he had clutched at her, grateful that he didn't wake or stir. The barrier he had erected around himself was one that she had no idea how to breach. She wept for him and for his past, for the unfairness of his life, and for everything that kept him from her. She knew that there were no grounds for his fears -- she knew the depth of her feelings for him -- but words alone would not convince Erik of anything. Words had betrayed him too many times.

When her own tears had finally ceased, Christine sat still, her energy spent on holding Erik tightly and comfortably. She resolved not to fall asleep. Instead, she contented herself with watching him breathe, and whispered into his ear that she loved him, over and over, hoping that it might give him pleasant dreams.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: The song Christine sings near the end is from the Lord of the Rings: Return of the King. I did not come up with it myself. Unfortunately. **

A quiet week passed without incident. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, and though she couldn't help it, Christine found herself being avoided by Erik nearly all of the time. After his initial breakdown, which had seemed, to him, an all too public affair, he kept himself locked in the music room, and could be heard furiously pounding on the piano day and night. Christine assumed that he was writing a new opera, but during that awful week, she never worked up the courage to ask. Every ten hours or so, Erik would step softly out of the music room, walk stiffly to the kitchen, and pour a glass of water out of the pitcher that Christine left sitting out for him. Next, he would turn to the cabinets, open the one in the middle, and take a red apple out with careful fingers. And after this expedition, he would trek back upstairs with even steps, and close the door to the music room behind him.

Christine couldn't help but wonder how long Erik would keep acting this way. She found herself bored, miserable, and completely unable to bridge the distance that Erik had forced between them. Her quiet desperation grew as the days passed. Every night when she went to the cabinets, she could see their food supply getting lower and lower, but Erik never commented on their shortage. He acted, in fact, as though he wasn't even aware of it, and Christine wasn't sure that he was. Although she knew that something would have to happen soon, she was terrified of breaking his pattern. She knew that he wouldn't hurt her, but she was worried about what breaking his stubborn concentration would do to him. Christine thought once about leaving the house early in the morning on Saturday to go to the market, but she was afraid that Erik would know about it as soon as she left the house, and that he would leave without telling her, intending for her to move on in life without him. And no matter how many times she knocked on the door to the music room, he never responded. There wasn't even a break in his piano playing- he went on as if she hadn't made any noise.

Finally, after a whole night of crying, Christine found herself once more in front of the door to the music room. She held a dried red rose in her hand- the same one that Erik had left on her pillow on her first morning in the house. The black ribbon still clung to the withered stem. The piano inside was quiet, and she wondered if Erik was sleeping, or finished with his obsessive composition. She took a deep breath, and knocked softly.

Nothing happened. No angry voice called out to her, the piano stayed silent, and she could hear no movement inside the room. She waited there hopefully for another moment, but then her head hung low with despair, and she felt the tears gather and spill down her pale cheeks. She turned away from the door, letting the withered rose fall from her hands. She leaned against the wall with her arms above her head for support, aware of nothing but the feel of her tears; the utter silence that was stabbed with her abrupt cries, and the bitter disappointment that she had tried so valiantly to force out of her heart. She wondered at how a heart could shatter so violently without making any sound. Her blood seemed to roar in her veins, and she clung to the wall with shaking fingers, digging her nails into the paint. She sobbed without thought for a while, but then the pain took on a sharper image, and she could see Erik's face in her mind. He was on his knees, weeping, his mask discarded in anger and his soul torn open, leaving a rift inside that went deeper than either blood or bone. With this image, she started shaking even worse than before, and slid down the wall to rest in a heap on the floor.

"Erik," She sobbed, "I'm so sorry. What have I done to you… it's all wrong… it's not supposed to be this way… not for us…"

It suddenly seemed clear to her that this was all somehow her fault, that she had caused these emotions in him, and that she had somehow managed to make him feel inferior. If Erik had never met her, would he have been happier? Would he have stayed at the Opera Popular if he hadn't been training her? She had no way of knowing now. But she knew where she would be if she hadn't gone away with him, and it made her shudder.

Suddenly, Christine became aware of the fact the door to the music room was opening, and from her place on the floor, she saw a hesitant black dress shoe step outside the invisible, forbidden line that Erik had erected. Suddenly ashamed of herself and her breakdown, Christine hurled herself to her feet, and crushed the fragile, discarded rose with her heel as she darted to the bedroom. She slammed the door behind her in her haste, and threw herself upon the bed, resuming her tears now that the embarrassment was gone. All she could think of was that she wanted Erik, but he no longer wanted her. He probably regretted bringing her here. And that horrible thought was still on her tired mind when she drifted off to sleep hours later, the door still shut firmly behind her. Erik made no attempt to open it.

It seemed that she began to dream almost as soon as her tired eyelids closed. She was back in the graveyard, in front of her father's tomb, and the snow was falling lightly upon her shoulders, dusting the black cloak that she wore. She heard the angel of music calling to her; only now she knew that it was Erik's voice that she was hearing. But even with this knowledge, his voice lost none of its appeal. She turned to face him with her arms stretched out, ready for an embrace, and her face was stretched into a trusting smile. Erik rushed toward her out of the snow, laughing as he neared the steps to her father's grave.

"There you are, little one!" He called happily. His mask was whiter than the snow, and his face was slightly flushed from the cold, but his eyes were dark and beautiful. He reached the stairs, and stopped just for an instant to smile up at her, and Christine felt her heart soar with joy. But out of nowhere appeared Raoul, with the sun glinting dangerously off of his sword.

She cried out, "Erik!" But it was too late, and Christine watched, unable to move, as Raoul stabbed Erik through the chest with his sword. Erik's eyes went wide with pain and surprise as Raoul ripped the sword back out again. Erik's mouth opened slightly, and he looked right at Christine, his gaze piercing, and then fell face down into the cold snow.

Raoul turned to her and said simply, without emotion, "You made the wrong choice, Christine." And then, he disappeared, just as suddenly as he had come.

Christine was in agony as she tripped and slid her way down the slippery steps to where Erik lay in the snow. He was barely breathing, but as she rolled him over, she saw the blood gush out of his wound, hot enough to melt the snow that had gathered on his tunic. She placed one hand under his head and the other over the jagged hole, hoping to stop the bleeding, but it was too late. His blood burned her frigid hands and left them sticky and bright red. Erik looked at her with pain in his eyes, and whispered with difficulty, "It's over now…"

Christine clutched his head tighter to her, trying to keep him warm. He felt so cold. She inclined her head and whispered back, with a lump in her throat and tears in her eyes, "What's over, my love?" She bit her lip, and tasted blood on her tongue, not minding that it was her own.

Erik began to squirm on the snow, his face a grimace. But finally, after only a few horrifying seconds, he stilled, and looked at her with sorrowful eyes. He said, to answer her question, "Our music… the music of the night…"

Christine shook her head forcefully. "No!" She whispered with fervor."No, it's not over. Don't give up Erik, I need you..."

A tear spilled over his right eye, and with sudden understanding of what he needed, Christine reached up with her bloody hand, and removed the white mask from his face. He protested weaky, and tried to turn his head. But he didn't have the strength to put the mask back on, and Christine set it gently on the snow, noticing how the blood from her fingers made the mask look more gruesome than she had ever seen it before.

She bent down and kissed the tear that had spilled under his mask, and he went very still, releasing a deep sigh when she moved her lips to hover over his.

"It is over, my beautiful Christine. I'm so sorry for you. I'm so very sorry..." And then he went silent as Christine kissed him with all the love and tenderness she had ever possessed. "I love you," he whispered. And then his eyes closed, he went still in her arms, and died.

Christine closed her eyes and kissed him on the forehead. She then replaced his mask, and rested his head gently on the snow. Standing up, she took unsteady steps back up the stairs, to stand once more in front of her father's tomb. The once peaceful, winter scene was now full of a white mist that felt mystical and secretive. She rested her head against the wrought iron gate of the tomb, and pounded on it with her fists. The world went to pieces around her as she imagined the place where Erik was going. Her father would be there... She should be there...

"Where are you?" She screamed, he voice raw with despair. "Is he with you? Answer Me!" She wasn't sure if she was talking to Erik or her father, and realized that it didn't matter.

No answer came, and she sank to her knees in front of the doors, clinging to the bars with trembling, freezing hands. After a few moments, she could hear the faintest hint of music. She looked up abruptly, but saw nothing but the white mist. But she knew that she wasn't hearing things. Soon, it became louder and louder. Christine thought that it sounded like a violin. Then, she was sure that it was not one violin, but two. She stood up quickly and turned to face the stairs again. Erik's body wasn't there. There was no blood in the snow. She whirled around to the left and right, but saw nothing but the mist. The violins were getting louder and louder, their notes rising and falling in a sweet lullaby. Christine's eyes widened with surprise as she recognized the melody. It was an old song that her father used to play for her at night, to put her to sleep. When she got a little older, she and her father made up words to it, and she would sing along with his playing.

She heard this melody and ran down the stairs, passing where Erik's body had lain with a shudder. The violins seemed to be calling to her; the sweet lullaby was like a loving caress to her senses. She looked frantically right and left and forward, hoping to see a silhouette in the mist. She dared to believe again. The damp grass contrasted harshly with the swift cobblestones as she ran, unseeing, through the graveyard. More than once she tripped over a headstone or a dip in the ground, but she simply dragged herself to her feet and continued. But, more swiftly than she had expected, she grew tired; the mist seemed to weigh her lungs down. Panting for breath and hot under her heavy cloak, she was forced to stop. The violins were very close now. She thought that she could even hear feet tapping slowly to the rhythm of the song. The haunting melody continued.

And then, ever so slowly, she began to see a shape in the mist. Christine held her breath, and she balled her hands into fists. She raised her chin, and waited. The shape appeared to be that of a man. His face and clothes were hidden in the swirling whiteness that consumed the graveyard, but his left arm cradled a violin, and he rested his chin upon it reverently as his right hand brought the bough across the strings. Christine recognized that pose. But she didn't move. She was sure that she had heard two violins before, but now she heard only the one. Her heart constricted painfully in her chest. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew away the mist between her and the figure, and Christine plainly recognized her father's features. Joy battled with sorrow as Christine ran toward him. But when she reached his side, he continued playing his violin, his expression serene. He didn't even seem to know that she was there; he didn't acknowledge her at all. She stared at him, willing him to speak. But he kept his eyes down, on his precious violin.

"Father…" Christine whispered. She took a step closer. He still did not react. She began to cry again. "Why won't you answer me? It's Christine…" Nothing happened.

The chorus to the lullaby came around again, and as it rose in volume, Christine heard a haunting harmony rise with it, seperate from her father's. So there were two violins! She whirled around, and saw Erik standing right behind her, a violin also cradled in his left arm. Her eyes brightened with joy. "Erik!" She exclaimed, "What is going on? Why won't father speak to me?"

Erik was her safe harbor, the one she had counted on since her father had died to keep her safe, to love her and be there for her, and it came as a great shock when, for the first time, he offered her no help. He simply played his violin, just as her father did, with his eyes down and a slight smile on his lips as the song continued, flawless and precise. Christine felt the tears pouring out of her. They seemed to have no end. But she knew her part in this song. Maybe if she sang with them, they would notice her. She opened her mouth to sing, but nothing came out at first. She swallowed hard, and tried again. This time the words came out, and Erik's slight smile widened into a grin as he heard her voice match the pitch of the violins. Her father moved around her and stood next to Erik. She wasn't surprised that she remembered the words perfectly.

She sang: "Home is behind; the world ahead. And there are many paths to tread -- Through shadow, to the edge of night. Until the stars are all alight. Mist and shadow; cloud and shade. All shall fade. All shall fade."

When the song finally ended, her father and Erik dropped their violins slowly to their sides. Her father bent and set his carefully on the ground, and after a moment, Erik did the same. In a very unexpected move, her father turned and gave Erik a huge hug, holding him tight to his chest, saying, "Welcome back, my boy. I've missed you so."

Christine's eyes grew huge as she realized that they knew each other. They continued to ignore her, and she felt a twinge of bitterness. Why wouldn't they talk to her? How did they know each other? Erik hadn't begun to sing to her until after he father had died…

Erik replied, "Thank you, sir, I've missed you too. You've no idea how much…"

"I knew that you would be fine. You're a strong one, Erik. I knew you would find a way without me. I was watching over you the whole time." Her father said, with a loving tone. Erik smiled. "You've finally grown up," her father continued, "And you came to love my daughter, just as I thought you would." Erik nodded slightly. "I thought I heard her, singing with us," her father said, "But I couldn't see her. And she seems to have disappeared. Why didn't she come with you?"

Erik looked down at the violins, and said softly, "I don't know where she is. I heard her singing too, you know as well as I that I could hear her voice even if we were worlds apart. But something happened… before… There was blood, and pain, and I passed through without her. I think that she's still on the other side. She's alone…now…" He broke off, and bent his head still lower. He wrinkled his brow. "But I know that I heard her," he mumbled, "I swear that I can feel her, right now." Her father put his hand sympathetically on Erik's shoulder.

Christine took three steps closer to them, growing more bitter by the second. "I'm right here!" She yelled at them. "I'm right in front of you! I can hear you!"

They showed no reaction. And Christine did something that she never would have imagined. She ran from them. She ran from her father and her love; turned her back to them and sprinted away, as fast and as far as she could.

And then she woke up, screaming.

Then sunlight was breaking in through the open window of the bedroom. She felt someone on the bed next to her, and felt his arms holding her tight, shaking her. "Wake up, darling, it was just a dream, it's alright…" he said softly. She turned her head to look up at him. It was Erik, and his mask was on, and for a moment she was so relieved that he wasn't dead that she threw her arms around him, and he rubbed his hands in reassuring circles on her back. But then she remembered the past horrible week: his furious playing at the piano, how he'd ignored her completely, and her breakdown in front of the door to the music room.

And just as suddenly, she remembered her dream; every aspect of it and what it could mean to her now. And with surprising strength, she _knew_ that Erik had known her father; had loved him. And her father had loved him in return. With a furious light in her eyes, she shoved Erik away, got up, and walked to the window. She crossed her arms in front on her chest.

"Would you say, Erik, that we've conquered some large obstacles together?" She asked in a cold voice, staring out the window into the open street, where she could see everyone else moving about their daily lives.

"Yes," he whispered, looking at her intently.

"Is there anything else that you feel you should tell me before we try to move on, together? Anything that might hurt us later on?" Her voice was still cold.

"No," he answered softly, his eyes never leaving her stiff, straight back at the window. "Nothing."


	7. Chapter 7

Christine turned to look at Erik, her mind still buzzing with the memory of her dream. But as she took in his appearance, her anger and confusion dulled. Erik had changed out of his black suit and dress shoes, and was wearing a plain white undershirt and black pants. To her faint surprise, he was barefoot. His hair was causally slicked back like always, but something about his face seemed different. She studied it more carefully. His head was tilted a bit to the side as he looked at her, his lips were slightly open, and his eyes were dark and sincere. She looked for the hooded despair that so often plagued his features, but couldn't see it. And there, she thought she had found the difference. He had lost the haunted look that he'd worn during that entire, awful week. Maybe writing that new music had indeed helped him cleanse his soul.

Feeling the rest of her anger melt away, Christine relaxed and walked over to the edge of the bed to stand in front of Erik. She placed one hand on the side of his face, and he looked up at her with a beautiful half-smile, and wrapped his arms around her waist. He gently rested his head against her stomach, and she placed one of her hands on the back of his neck, and the other on the back of his head, slowly running her fingers through his thick brown hair. She heard Erik sigh, and then he whispered, "I'm sorry Christine."

He pulled back from her and stood up, and she stepped back to give him room. He reached out and took her hand in his, comforting himself with the soft contact.

Christine looked at him with her brows creased in concern, and asked, "You look better Erik. How are you, really?"

He smiled at her tenderly, and said sincerely, "It didn't take me as long as I thought that it would. It still amazes me that I could come to terms with my entire wretched existence in one week. But I think, that somehow, I've achieved it. I'm only sorry that I couldn't explain it to you at the time."

Christine just shook her head. "I understood. Although I am sorry about running from you when you came out of the door." She let out a little laugh. "I'm very selfish when it comes to you."

Erik chuckled. "Yes, love, I know the feeling."

Christine leaned in and kissed him suddenly, enjoying having him with her after the week of unpleasant uncertainty. When she leaned back, Erik took a deep breath. "I don't know if I can ever get used to you doing that." He said, a look of wonder on his face. "But I have some things that I want to tell you."

Instead of immediately jumping into conversation, like Christine expected, Erik took her hand again and stepped out of the bedroom, and led her down the little hallway to the music room. He opened the door and swung it open easily, and guided Christine inside, shutting the door again behind them. Christine noticed that it wasn't nearly as messy as she would have expected it to be, after Erik practically lived in it for a week. The music stands and instruments all fit neatly against the wall, and the only new addition to the room was a thick stack of parchment bound together with black ribbon. This rested on the piano, and the title read "The phantom of the Opera." When she saw this, she gasped, and immediately looked at Erik.

"That's what you were working on!" She said in a shocked voice.

Erik nodded. "Yes." He said, "I wrote an opera about my life. The music helped me to understand myself. And why I've been so afraid for so long." He looked thoughtfully at the thick manuscript, picked it up, and then set it down again, obviously nervous and seeking some sort of comfort. Noticing this, Christine put her hand on the side of his face and turned him towards her. She kissed him softly, and he kissed her forehead in return.

"I've decided," he whispered, "To tell you everything that I know of my past. And if you wish to stay with me after you know everything, then I will leave this house with you and go wherever you want. If I have you with me, I don't need to hide anymore."

"But-" Christine interrupted, slowly, "What about the police? They're probably still out looking for you. You're wanted for murder. Erik, you can't just parade around in the streets with an arrest warrant over your head, whether you wear a mask or not."

"I know Christine. But this will all be sorted out in due time. Right now, I'm more concerned about talking with you." He replied, and took a tired seat on the piano bench. He scooted backwards, swung his legs around until he was straddling the bench, and then patted the space next to him. Christine echoed his movements, until they both sat on the piano bench, facing each other, the "Phantom of the Opera" score sitting next to them with an almost ominous presence.

"I told you once that my mother couldn't look at me without my mask on." Erik began in an unsteady voice, "but my father was the exact opposite. He was always very kind and patient with me, and filled the gap that my mother left in my life. He let me take my mask off while she was away at parties, and he would play the violin sometimes to calm me whenever I'd had a particularly bad encounter with her.

"My father taught me how to read sheet music, and it was with him that I realized that I wanted to be a composer. Of course, I was only 5 at the time. But it was a strong compulsion in me, even then." Erik gestured to the walls around them. "This room was father's music room, it's where he would play for me."

With this, Erik patted the thick score on the piano, and smiled at Christine, who smiled encouragingly back. She could actually picture a tiny Erik, sitting on his father's knee, and the image made her happy for him. The descriptions of his father already reminded her of her own. Erik reached for Christine's hand, clasped it firmly, and she knew that the hard part of the story was yet to come.

"One day," he continued, "My father was off performing at the town square with some friends who were also musicians. My mother mentioned to me that a traveling gypsy fair was in the city for a few days, and suggested that we go and see it while waiting for father's return. I jumped at the chance to spend time with her, and readily agreed."

Erik took a deep breath, and Christine could feel the torment in him. Although he claimed to have come to terms with his life, she knew that it must be hard for him to finally give up all of the mystery that had come to be associated with his character. But after only a brief moment of silence, he continued.

"The fair was not what I expected. When my mother and I got there, they were still setting up their tents and cages, and none of the exhibits had yet arrived. My mother told me to wait in front of a little empty wagon that was screened off with metal bars, and went off to speak to a big man standing next to a curtain. The next thing I knew, two of the gypsy workers had come up behind me, and easily picked me up. I was a scrawny thing, and only 5, and I couldn't fight them off.

"I called out to mother, but she didn't reply, and I couldn't see her anywhere. Even the man she'd been talking to had disappeared. The workers placed me inside the empty wagon, and one held me down while the other removed my mask. I started screaming."

Erik stopped again, and looked up at Christine, who was watching him intently. Seeming to gather strength from her chocolate brown eyes, he traced one finger down her arm, and then took a hold of her other hand.

"A few minutes later, I had a canvas bad over my head, with holes cut out at eye-level so that I could see. Through these holes, I saw the big man hand my mother a fistful of coins, and my mother took them, and then looked right at me. I called out to her, and asked what was going on, but she just shook her head at me. She made her way over to the wagon I was in, and I thought that she would tell them to release me, but instead, she told me that the fair was my new home. I was where I belonged. She turned and left me there. I haven't seen her since, nor would I want to.

"I traveled with the fair for over a year before it came back to Paris. Everywhere we went it was the same. A big crowd would appear outside my cage, and the big man would come inside and take the bag off of my head, so that the crowd could see my face. Sometimes he would beat me, other times he left me alone. It depended on the type of crowd it was. But more often than not, I was beaten.

"I devised a plan of escape. I had seen no signs of either my mother or father, and when we returned to Paris, I had hopes of going back home. I knew that if father was there, mother couldn't send me away again. So on the opening day of my second Paris carnival, I strangled the big man with a stray rope when he came in to take off my canvas bag. I thought that I would escape unseen, but a girl saw me kill him. Instead of running away from me, however, she ran towards me, and grabbed my hand, and led me away from the fair and to the opera popular. She hid me inside the opera's chapel."

Erik stopped again and said in a simpler tone, "You know the woman who helped me. She was 10 years older than I, 17 at the time. It was Madame Giry."

Christine gasped. "Truly?" She asked with difficulty. "I never would have thought that she…"

Erik nodded. "Yes it's true. She kept a close watch on me for several weeks. She told me that it would be best for me to lay low for a bit, because the gypsy fair was still in town. But a month after my escape, I left the opera house early in the morning to go back home. I found my way with a little difficulty, but it seemed like only a bad dream by the time I reached the house. I used the same little gold key that you did to open the door to the house. I crept cautiously up the stairs and to the music room, where I could hear my father playing his violin. But when I slowly cracked open the door, there was something in the room with him. It was a cradle, and there was a baby boy in it, maybe 6 months old. My father was playing his violin to it. And when he finished playing the song, he walked to the cradle and picked the baby up, and said 'Raoul, you are the son I should have had long ago.' And I ran from the house and went back to the opera popular. I had nowhere left to go."

He looked at Christine to see how she was digesting this particular information. Her eyes were huge. "Erik," she said slowly, "are you trying to tell me that your Raoul, and my Raoul, are the same person?"

Erik smiled grimly. "Yes." He said, "Raoul is my brother."


	8. Chapter 8

Christine stared at Erik, her mouth hanging slightly open in a very un-ladylike manner. "Raoul," she said slowly, willing herself to comprehend, "is your brother?" The idea had never occurred to her; the two of them had tried to kill each other more than once.

Erik nodded his head, his eyes searching her face for disbelief, suspicion, or anger. Finding none, he relaxed a bit. Having progressed this far in his tale, he felt himself giving into the flow of it, seeing the memories playing in his head with greater clarity than he'd ever had before.

"Raoul is, indeed, my younger brother. By about seven years, I believe. But he is unaware of this. He has no idea that we are related, and I have no desire for him to ever find out. It would be most inconvenient, since we are sworn to hate one another for all eternity." Erik smiled slightly, and not without humor.

Christine rubbed her fingers in soothing circles on his palm. "But Erik," she asked tentatively, "Why did you run when you found you had a baby brother? Why didn't you go inside and reveal yourself to your father? I'm sure he would have been overjoyed to see you…"

Erik smiled sarcastically. "For that," he said, "I blame my immature mentality. I felt that, since my father had not found me; that perhaps he hadn't bothered to look. And he seemed so happy holding Raoul, the 'son he should have had.' I felt that it was my opportunity to remove myself from the family for good, and take the monstrous obligation that I represented with me.

"And," he added, "I was terrified of what my mother would say if she saw me. I didn't see her there with my father, but she could have been somewhere else in the house, and I knew that I would never get past what she had done to me. So, I left my house; for good, I thought that night.

"But I couldn't do it. I couldn't stay away. I loved my father too much. I knew that I shouldn't be with him; I knew that I was unworthy, but still, the love I remembered from my father drew me in. I returned the next night, and hid in the bushes out front, underneath the window. I snuck glances over the sill when I thought no one was looking, and was rewarded with several glimpses of my father walking past, holding Raoul. I still saw no sign of my mother, but my fear remained, strong as ever.

"After a few hours of this pathetic hiding, I heard a strange commotion coming towards the house from down the street. I turned to look, and saw a large group of men walking in the direction of the house. I was afraid that I would be discovered, and so I fled.

"I passed the night in abandoned alley, too scared of discovery to even attempt my way back to the opera house. I was unable to sleep, for a horrible feeling pressed in my stomach, and I couldn't escape the feeling that something awful was happening. I sat in the alley, shaking, and hating myself for my cowardice, until daylight graced the top of the Paris buildings. Then, I got up and ran back to my father's house.

"The building I came back to was unlike the one I had left. The street was abandoned, and as I hid myself once more in the bushes under the window, the same horrible feeling from the night before gripped me. When I had gathered the courage to look into the window, I saw numerous pieces of furniture flat on the floor. One of those was the crib that my father had so lovingly laid Raoul into. And then I knew that something was very wrong.

"Without thinking, I ran up the front steps, all thoughts for my safety forgotten. The door was already open slightly, so I pushed it aside with all my force, and it banged against the wall. I ran to the crib and slid to my knees beside it, hurriedly pushing aside the pile of blankets and toys that blocked it. There was nothing there.

"I got up and looked briefly into the kitchen, but everything there was in its rightful place. So, I opened the door to the second story and darted up the stairs. The door to the bedroom was open, and as I bolted inside, I saw a woman's foot and shoe sticking out on the floor from the other side of the bed. I made myself walk over, and saw that it was my mother. There was no blood, no weapons, and yet, she wasn't breathing or moving. She laid perfectly still, on her back, her eyes open and unseeing.

"I wish I could say that I was sorry to see her dead. But that would be a lie. I felt nothing. When it came to her, I was numb to all emotion besides betrayal. But her death made me nervous about what had happened to my father. But I thought that I knew, and so I walked to my father's music room. It was as I expected. He lay in front of the piano. His arms were crossed mockingly across his chest. I could see the rope burn around his neck. They had hung him. I sat next to his body and stared at his face.

"I knew that I was responcible for him. Even as young as I was, I knew that I had killed my father. I knew that the group of men I'd seen last night had been searching for me. I knew that they had found my house, my mother, and killed them all for spite. And that made it all my fault. No physical deformity I'd ever had compared with that one, unbearable thought.

"I sat there for a long while, content to grieve in silence, but then I heard a noise. It was a light shuffle, and then a soft murmur. I turned to look at the door, but no one was there. The only furniture in the room was the piano. So I got up, and walked over to it, listening. The sound came again, this time with a light giggle. I tore the top up on the piano, feeling hope expand in my chest.

"There, lying on top of the piano strings, wrapped hastily in a blue blanket, was Raoul. My father had hidden him there. I was unsure of my feelings towards my little brother, but I knew that I couldn't just leave him there. He was as orphaned as I was. I picked him up and held him in my arms, expecting him to cry when he saw my face, but he made no noise. He just looked at me with those baby blue eyes. To him, I was not a monster..."

Here, Erik's voice faltered. He bowed his head, and then shook it slowly in disbelief. "If only I had known then where this empty life would lead us," he whispered. Christine had no idea what to say, so she sat in silence, holding his hand. Time stretched on. Squaring his shoulders and raising his head, Erik took a breath and continued once more, his tale nearly finished.

"Although I knew that I couldn't leave him there, I also knew that I couldn't possibly take him with me to the Opera Popular. It was an insane idea. And yet, I found myself wishing that I could.

"Instead, I tried to picture in my head the biggest house in Paris that I could remember. When I did, it was the de Changy mansion. I had no idea what he and his family were like, but I knew that if they didn't want Raoul, he would be given to the orphanage, so either way he would be cared for. But some ironic part of me wanted him to be accepted there, and to be given all the things that I never would. Part of this was out of respect for my father. The rest was from a part of me that I will never understand.

"My mind made up, I sat with Raoul until the cover of darkness fell, and then I made my way through the streets of Paris to my chosen haven. When I reached the grand stairs of the mansion, I thought for a moment before turning and approaching the back of the house, where the servant entrance was. I thought that he would be more quickly discovered there. With only a little hesitation, I laid him on the top step. I pinned his name on a spare bit of parchment, and settled it softly in his blanket face up. It was a weak thing to do, but I wanted him to have the name that my father gave him. And then I walked away.

"I went back to the opera house. I sat in my underground grotto. And I waited to hear the news of a new son for the Changy's. I didn't have to wait long. By the next morning, everyone was buzzing about M. de Changy's new son. It was nearly unheard of for rich families to adopt children, because they were so haughty about their bloodlines, but it was said that the baby's eyes were so blue, that he and his wife were unable to send him away. And with that bit of news, I resolved to forget everything that had transpired. But I was unsuccessful."

Erik stood up suddenly, crossed to the other side of the room, and picked up the violin that rested in the corner.

"Can I play you something from my Opera?" He asked tentatively, hoping to break the tension. Christine nodded, welcoming the opportunity for her to gather her thoughts. Erik placed his bow upon the strings and began his song. And Christine closed her eyes and tried to push Raoul from her mind. The empathy that she felt for him was confusing. The comment that Raoul had made about Erik killing her father suddenly filled up her thoughts. He had said that he had proof. And though Erik had told her the tale of his childhood, he had yet to mention her father. Christine took note of this. And as Erik sat playing his violin, she tried to forget that she had noticed it.


End file.
